


Rigging Screws, DVD bonus extras

by AJHall



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-17
Updated: 2013-04-17
Packaged: 2017-12-08 18:16:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/764483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AJHall/pseuds/AJHall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two short ficlets, written for Commodorified and Shezan, exploring a couple of issues which happened after the curtain fell at the end of <i>Rigging Screws</i>. </p><p>Not stand alone; read <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/193527/chapters/284906">Rigging Screens, Size 1 3/8 inch, galvanised </a><i> first</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. NIGHT

It was well after two a.m when the police finished taking statements and impounding computers, and probably closer to three once she'd made up beds in a couple of the spare rooms for John and Sherlock, who could hardly be expected to travel back to London at that time in the morning. Goodness only knew when she'd finally dozed off.

She woke to a noise from the landing. Her nerves tingled as at an electric shock. 

_Julian._

_Some smooth lawyer with the right connections and the right handshake. Out of the cell and sent home with apologies all round._

She forced herself out of bed, knees shaking, threw her dressing gown around her and eased open the door a fraction.

Her breath left her in a soundless exhalation of relief. Sherlock – his hair and height making him unmistakeable even in the dimness – was padding along the landing, wearing only a towel slung round his hips.

He half-turned. "Not this time, I promise. Go back to sleep."

She was swinging her chilled feet back into the lingering pocket of warmth beneath the duvet when a thought swam into the forefront of her mind.

 _Wrong room._

Sherlock had been heading away from the bathroom, from the stairs, from his own bedroom door. And while people did get disoriented in the dark, in strange houses, she'd lay large odds those people never included Sherlock Holmes.

He could only have been going to John's room.

She pulled the duvet round her shoulders and snuggled down. 

Not a surprise, not after seeing Sherlock's frantic desperation on the harbour wall, and John's air of rueful amusement in the car-park. Though how anyone could find the energy to play musical bedrooms, after the day and night they'd all had – 

Tucked within the blessed privacy of the duvet, she giggled. How Julian would have hated the thought. Especially under what he had, for far too long, considered his own roof. 

Now she remembered – now she could allow herself to remember – one of Charles' college friends had been that way inclined. Graeme, that had been his name: a kind, perpetually wearied individual with a face like a clever monkey and a constant five-o-clock shadow. 

Illegal, of course, back then, and not the sort of thing nice girls were supposed to know about, in any case. Still, she'd always been the observant sort, despite Mummy and school's best efforts to train it out of her (and thank God those had failed, all things considered!) 

She'd seen his obituary in the Telegraph last year. He'd gone off to MIT to be a biochemist. To judge by the fellowships, awards and honorary degrees listed in the column, he'd done well. Julian, reading over her shoulder – calculated to underline his exclusive claim on every last minute of her time, that habit – had skipped to the final line of the obituary, which referenced a civil partner, and snorted.

"AIDS, then. Another poof bites the dust."

She'd thought of a dozen retorts: pancreatic cancer is no respecter of persons, however straight those persons may be; Graeme wouldn't have been caught dead in a tactful lie, even in an obituary; how one departs life is of no account compared to how one lives it; Graeme, self-evidently, had lived life _gloriously_.

Julian had rendered her too weary to utter any of them, even then.

Joy flared up. Late, yes but not too late. The Telegraph would have details for the next of kin, so she could forward proper, if belated, condolences to Graeme's partner. Another small step along the path to claiming her life back.

She rolled over and went back to sleep.


	2. MORNING

She woke to bright sunshine streaming through the windows and the smell of fresh coffee wafting up the stairs. She put on her dressing gown and descended to find John busy at the Aga.

He looked up from his pans. "Sorry to raid your fridge. But it seemed like the lesser of two evils. And I don't think I've made too big a dent. There seemed quite a lot there."

Provisions for the Brittany trip, she realised. Superfluous, in the light of yesterday's events. A problem she hadn't realised she had, now being solved before her very eyes.

"By all means help yourselves. You must be starving."

"Oh it's more than that." He gestured with the business end of a spatula at Sherlock, who was staring into the garden with his elbows propped on the window ledge. "He never eats when he's on a case, and then ends up being whompingly rude to everyone in sight. Which people put down to his being an irascible genius or a complete psycho, according to whether they fancy him or not. But it's low blood sugar, mainly. Coffee?"

"Please, but –"

He handed her a steaming mug, and turned back to the Aga from which delectable smells were drifting. Her mouth watered; belatedly it occurred to her she had eaten nothing since yesterday lunchtime's toasted sandwich.

Sherlock didn't bother to turn his head. "Also, your solicitor will be arriving soon. If there's one thing I know about partners in City law firms, they march on their stomachs. Having lined them with smoked salmon, given half a chance."

"Penguins in pin-stripes," John murmured. " _Expensive_ penguins." He slid a perfect omelette onto a plate, handing it to her with a little nod.

She forked up a mouthful – it tasted even better than it smelled – before the implications of Sherlock's remark sunk in. "My solicitor? But I – "

 _I didn't know I was accused of anything_ collided with, _Of course Julian will claim I'm an accessory. Hell, given half a chance he'll claim I'm the Lady Macbeth of the Beaulieu River._

"Not a criminal lawyer." Sherlock didn't turn round, but made a theatrical, dismissive gesture, which looked rather like someone demonstrating the wrist action for reverse spin bowling. "You don't want a City firm for that sort of stuff. I've asked one of my favourite Hampshire criminals to text me details of who he uses, in case you get any idiocy of _that_ sort. No, to deal with the bank."

Marjorie gulped. The bank, of course, would have to be faced, and having a lawyer at her side when doing so would be enormously helpful, and Charles had always said that half the battle was impressing the hell out of people before they got a word in, but –

"Sherlock, I can't possibly afford City rates, not when I don't even know how much of my money Julian's managed to get his hands on."

"Don't worry about that. He's agreed to do it pro bono. He owes me a favour."

Her jaw dropped. "That's – a very large favour."

Sherlock shrugged. "It was a very large hole in his client account."

There was, of course, no real response to that. In any event, the sounds of a car pulling up outside cut short further discussion.

"That'll be him now." John squinted at his frying pans. "Definitely more bacon needed."

Sherlock glared at him. "John, do you ever notice anything? Mid-range BMW. Probably the most expensive way of conveying, 'I'm terminally boring' known to man.' At least, to that man." He ran his fingers through his hair. "Marjorie, brace yourself. The stupid is about to overwhelm us all."

The bell rang.

Given Sherlock's hints, Marjorie was not entirely surprised to find Foggy goggling at her on the doorstep. His arrival proved unexpectedly annoying, nonetheless.

"Well?" she snapped at him. "What brings you here?"

He recoiled a little, looking hurt. "I saw the news, of course. What did you expect me to do? Look, it's awful, I know, but it's obviously the police getting completely the wrong end of the stick. We only need to get a proper lawyer on it – there was a chap I was at school with who's just been made up to partner at Slaughters – he's bound to know what the right thing is to do. We'll have Julian home before you know it. All you have to do is keep calm and leave it all to me and Adrian. Don't you worry about a thing, Aunty Muffles."

"Aunty _Muffles_?" The deep, throaty, appalled voice came from somewhere above and behind her left ear.

Incongruous memories of a dusty church hall and a long afternoon presiding over auditions for the amateur dramatic and operatic society bubbled up.

_Search over. We've found our Lady Bracknell._

Sherlock stepped forward, so that he was standing between her and Foggy. While she appreciated the protective impulse it irked her, too. _Last night you were happy to have me drive a RIB into a gale after an armed murderer. I don't need you to protect me just from a bloody – relative._

"Oh, Christ! If it isn't fucking Spocklock." Foggy turned to her. "What the hell is _he_ doing here?"

Exasperation transmuted into red rage. _More than you or your brother has managed for the last five years._

She wanted to strangle him on the spot; scarcely the wisest course, especially if she was already suspected of being an accessory to murder.

The recollection of that dusty church hall saved her. She summoned up the expression of fake bonhomie which had served her so well when trying to persuade the Chairman's wife that perhaps her days as Gwendolyn were a _leetle_ behind her.

"What's Sherlock doing here? Let's see. I first spoke to him yesterday lunchtime. Since then – well, where to begin?"

She began ticking off on her fingers.

"He's burgled the house, hacked into Julian's computer, posed as my toyboy, charmed Julian's mistress into telling him all about their kinky sex life over drinks,massaged me with essential oils, purloined my sanding gear, indulged in drive-by anti-fouling, broken into a random yacht to use the VHF, taken and driven away the Matilda Briggs, tied Julian up, given him the thumping of a lifetime and then had him arrested for murder, dismemberment and, if Southampton port authorities have anything to do with it, unauthorised waste disposal in coastal waters." 

She paused for breath; fortunately Foggy was still opening and shutting his mouth like a guppy. Sherlock, on the other hand, was looking rather as if all his Christmases had come at once.

She glared at him; the relief to her feelings was enormous. "Well, young man? That was yesterday's effort. What are you planning by way of an encore?"

Sherlock smiled a slow, cat-like grin which had Foggy taking a further step backwards. "Well, unless you had any other plans, I'll settle for a sausage sandwich."

The range of colours which chased each other across her nephew's face were fascinating, if somewhat alarming. She swallowed, and thanked God that John was a doctor, and within call.

Especially given what was coming. She drew a deep breath.

"Jeremy, understand one thing. If you want to try and involve yourself in Julian's defence I can't stop you. But, before you do – and certainly before you spend any money on it – I think there's something you ought to know."

She leant forward, so that she was inches from Foggy's face.

"I have absolutely no doubt whatsoever that Julian did it. And whatever side you may be planning to stand on when it comes to trial, _I_ shall be in the witness box. For the prosecution." 

The words seemed to sink in as if in slow motion. Then he drew himself up.

"Auntie Muffles. If it's him whose been putting these ideas into your head – well, it may come as a shock to you, but I should tell you – we were at school together, and there are things about – him – that you really ought to know."

She cleared her throat. "No, Jeremy. There is absolutely _nothing_ more I wish to know about your schooldays. Either of your schooldays. There's not gin enough in Hampshire to drown the memory of what I've learned already. More's the pity."

He paused, as if uncertain what he had heard. And then, visibly, the penny dropped.

He began backing away towards the BMW in a bizarrely crab-like scuttle, as if his anxiety to escape warred with his fear of turning his back. He caught the car door, pulled it open, and then – his route to the open road clear at last – he turned at bay.

"Auntie Muffles! I'm warning you; I'm not coming back until you see sense. You're going to regret this!"

He vanished in a roar of over-revved engine. 

"Are you?" Sherlock's voice was low and surprisingly uncertain – as the resolution of the case had stripped him of all his arrogance, all his assurance, leaving him floundering around in a world turned to jelly.

_Someone should have been there. Someone should have taken his side._

Julian was in a cell. Her remaining family had washed their hands of her. The boatyard could replace the forestay fitting today or Doomsday for all she cared. Some pinstriped penguin – how Charles would have loved the phrase! - would deal with the bank.

None of that mattered a damn.

What did matter was that – for the first time in as long as she could remember – she knew beyond any shadow of a doubt she had been unquestionably, unequivocally right.

If she hadn't spotted Julian, added up what his presence at the hi-speed terminal in the wrong oilies at the wrong time meant, gone to the internet cafe and started digging, Sherlock would never have been in the right place to work his magic.

_How many boats have been lost because someone had too much pride to make a distress call?_

A grin of savage triumph threatened to split her face.

"No. I regret nothing."


End file.
